The Loves of Harry Dancer (25 page)

The question of Evelyn Heimdall is subtler. But no less frustrating. And frightening. He is aware of her new looseness. “She’s coming apart at the seams,” he tells himself. Then wonders if he is imagining. Counterintelligence agent Martin Frey reports her straight. But Glitner’s doubts persist.

She is on a high. Wildness there. He sees her drifting out of the Corporation’s orbit. Doesn’t know how to bring her back. He decides to push. Discover how far she’s gone.

“I like Florida,” he tells her. “Do you?”

“Love it, love it, love it,” she says. Snapping her fingers. Doing a dance step. “Sooo relaxing. I feel a hundred years younger. Don’t you?”

“At least,” he says. Smiling. “I must get out to the beach one of these days. Get some color.”

“Of course you must. Tell me when. We’ll make a day of it. Picnic lunch. Bottle of cold wine. The whole bit.”

“Sounds great.”

“And you’ll see my new bikini,” she says. Laughing at him. “Two postage stamps and a Band-Aid. Dancer loves it.”

“I can imagine,” Glitner says. Not liking this talk. Against his will, aroused by it.

He is almost convinced she is ready to turn. But that would mean that Martin Frey is either a hopeless incompetent or a partner in her betrayal. Either way, the Harry Dancer action is compromised.

Tony Glitner, glooming over the permutations and combinations of this unsavory situation, decides not to send a panic signal to the Chief of Operations. The case officer is responsible for his field agent. He will not sacrifice her until he has proved her treachery.

He knows how he might do that. It dismays him.

65

“T
ed Charon is on line two, sir,” Norma Gravesend says.

“Thank you, dear,” the Director says. Pushes the button.

“Yes, Ted?”

“Director, I wonder if you could stop by my office for a moment? Something’s come up on that matter we discussed a week ago. Could you drop by for a moment?”

“Of course. Be there immediately.”

In Charon’s office, the Internal Security Chief says, “I thought it best if we met here to talk about the Norma Gravesend investigation.”

“That was my original suggestion,” the Director says testily. “What have you got?”

“We’ve had close surveillance on her for the past week. She’s making contact at the public library with a middle-aged man. Passes a book to him every time they meet. We tailed him to his home. Did a B&E while he was out. His name is Leonard Gabriel. He’s got enough radio equipment in his house to reach Mars. We were unable to find any code books.”

Two men stare at each other. Gradually the Director’s ruddy face drains to chalk. Realizing what this means. Wondering how long he has been harboring a Corporation mole in his private office. Isn’t that what the Chairman will ask?

“How did you get on to her, sir?” Ted Charon asks. Sympathetic, but already trying to establish his distance from this breach of security.

“Instinct,” the Director says. “I always had my suspicions. What do you suggest we do now?”

Drawing me in to share the blame, Charon thinks. Not what do I do now, but what do we do now. The bastard wants me to clean up his mess.

“Pick up this Leonard Gabriel,” Charon says. “Wring him dry. I’ve got some experts; Gabriel will talk. Then we go to Norma. Tell her what we’ve got. Convince her that her only hope of survival is to turn again. Become a triple agent. Help us feed disinformation to the Corporation.”

The Director feels a thrill of hope. Perhaps his neck is safe after all. If they can persuade Norma to switch sides again, surely the Chairman will be more lenient in the punishment he decrees. He might even be willing to let the Director continue in his present position. With nothing worse than an official reprimand.

Two days later they call Norma Gravesend into the Director’s office. Lock the door. Show her Polaroid photos of what’s been done to Leonard Gabriel. Watch her face closely. Hoping for tears and hysteria. See only stony strength.

“Did you have to do that?” she asks. “To that dear man?”

“Do you deny you were part of the conspiracy?” Charon says.

“Don’t waste your time,” she advises. “I deny nothing. I admit everything. I’ve been a Corporation agent ever since I came to work for that monster.”

Jerks a contemptuous thumb at the Director. He begins to sweat.

“Norma,” he says. Trying to be avuncular. “Before you say anything more, dear, think of the consequences. You don’t have to share Gabriel’s fate. There is a way you can redeem yourself. And save yourself.”

“I’m already saved,” she says.

“Work for us,” Charon urges. “Just keep doing what you have been doing. We’ll tell you what to send to the Corporation.”

“No,” she says. Lifting her chin. “I expected that someday I might have to face this, and I made up my mind. I don’t care what you do to me. I will not go against the Corporation. It’s all I have.”

“Stupid woman!” the Director shouts at her.

“You may change your mind,” Charon says. Turns to the other man. “Do I have your permission to work on her, sir?”

“Yes, yes. Just get her out of here and do what you have to do.”

When they were gone, the Director sits slackly. Deflated. Thinks of how much Gravesend knows about the inner workings of the Department and what she must have told the Corporation. Worse is what she knows about his private habits. All that now in his dossier in Corporation files. He squirms with embarrassment.

Her betrayal shocks him, then angers him. After all his kindnesses to her. Repaid with vile treason. The Director’s eyes sting as he reflects on the injustice of it all. His personal life made public. Subject of crude jests, no doubt. His career endangered. His very existence at risk.

Sighing, wiping his eyes, he takes out a pad. Begins to compose a message. Wondering how he can possibly inform the Chairman of what has happened without making himself seem an incapable dolt. Worthy candidate for termination with extreme prejudice.

66

B
riscoe’s game plan is working wonderfully. Sanction of Shelby Yama gives him the title of Case Officer. As well as the power. Now he can lean on Sally Abaddon for results. Threaten reprisals if she doesn’t obey orders.

Even better is the Norma Gravesend defection—the talk of the entire Southeast Region. Briscoe figures it means the end of the Director. If that happens, and his job is open, who would be better suited than Briscoe? Especially if he scores a win in the Harry Dancer campaign.

Problems there. Abaddon swears she’s bringing Dancer around. But offers no proof. Angela Bliss, supposedly running a security check on the field agent, reports Sally is clean. But Briscoe is getting bad vibes from the whole operation. And too much is at stake to ignore his instincts.

He assigns himself the task of tailing Abaddon. Discovers that, as she claims, she is seeing Harry Dancer two or three times a week. But, Briscoe notes, their meetings are short, and becoming shorter. Lunch. Dinner. A few hours in Sally’s motel or Dancer’s home. But they no longer spend a night together.

Sally and Angela spend nights together. Frequently. And poolside days together. Shopping trips. Movies. Strolls on the beach. It may all be part of Angela’s job: getting close to the subject. And then again it may be a different kind of intimacy.

That doesn’t shock or offend Briscoe. The Department approves amoral personal conduct. What worries is how the relationship of the two women may affect the outcome of the case. If it endangers the winning of Harry Dancer, then Sally Abaddon will have to go. And Angela Bliss.

Briscoe is a sexless man. His needs are power and status. Even money is a secondary consideration. But he can act, if he must. And only by acting, he decides, can he test Sally Abaddon’s loyalty to the Department.

It is not a role he relishes. But her future, and his, may depend on his performance.

67

T
he dying ask questions that cannot be answered. “Why me?” Resignation comes slowly. But before that is a period of unfocused fury against the living, the happy, healthy living. Finally: acceptance. Smiling-sad remembrance. Revisiting the past.

Harry Dancer, so far down he believes he is never going to come up, recalls Sylvia in that mood. Nostalgia for everything. Old songs, old times, old friends. “Remember when—” obsesses her. She seems intent on re-creating a life. Finding value in her few years. Making them shine with a golden glory.

With loving patience, he joins her in the summing up. Indulging himself as he indulges her. Hoping to dull the pain. Instead, sharpening it to knife-edge. Two misers counting their wealth before it is lost.

“I want to go to the club,” she tells him. “By myself.”

He looks at her. “All right.”

“I want to sit at the bar. A single woman. Then you come in and pick me up.”

A ghastly idea. He feels like weeping. But knows what she seeks. Reassurance. To be wanted again. Reclaim her youth. Playacting an adventure. All pretend and make-believe. But precious to her. Vital. He is determined to see it through.

“Let’s do it,” he says. “When?”

“Tomorrow night. I’ll take a cab. Get there about eight. You drive up around eight-thirty.”

“Fine. What are you going to wear?”

“You can’t know. I’ll be a stranger to you.”

Following evening. He dresses swiftly. Leaves the bedroom to her. Takes a small gin out onto the patio. Sits there until he hears a cab arrive. House door slams. Cab takes off.

Harry comes back into the kitchen. Has another gin. Larger. Finds he is clenching his fists. Praying he can get through this evening without breaking. Takes a deep breath. Stalks about the empty house. Wondering what kind of role she wants him to play.

When he walks into the club, he sees her at the far end of the bar. Finishing a vodka gimlet. He stops suddenly. She is wearing the same dress she wore on their first date. Short-hemmed sheath of silver lame. He didn’t know she still had it. Marvels that it fits so beautifully.

Takes a chair two seats away from her. The bartender comes over. He knows them. Looks quizzically from husband to wife. Separated. Makes no comment.

“Good evening, James,” Harry says. “Beefeater on the rocks, please.”

When the drink is served, he glances at Sylvia, then says to the bartender, “Would you ask the lady if I might buy her a drink.”

James, figuring he’s in the middle of a family squabble, moves over to speak to Sylvia. Comes back to Dancer.

“Sorry, sir. The lady says to thank you for the offer, but she’ll buy her own.”

Harry nods. Watches while James mixes a fresh gimlet for Sylvia. The two sit there without speaking. Occasionally glancing at each other in the bar mirror. Then quickly looking away.

He sees her take out a pack of long Benson and Hedges menthols. Searched through her tapestried bag for matches. Looks about helplessly. Harry is at her elbow in an instant. Flourishing his lighter.

“Allow me,” he says.

“Thank you, sir,” Sylvia says. Very cool.

He holds the flame for her. Hand trembling slightly.

“Are you a member?” he asks. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.”

“A new member.”

“I’m sure you’re going to like it. My name is Harry Dancer. May I join you?”

“If you wish.”

He brings his drink. Takes the chair next to her. The bartender looks on approvingly.

“That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing,” Harry says. “Did you get it in Florida?”

“No. Manhattan.”

“Oh? Are you from New York? I used to live there.”

“I’ve never lived there, but I go up two or three times a year on shopping sprees.”

“Do you play tennis?”

“Oh yes. That’s why I joined the club.”

It is a pickup. Questions and answers. Learning about each other. They talk weather, tennis, Florida beaches, restaurants. She tells him her name. Sylvia Lloyd.

“May I buy you a drink, Sylvia?” he asks.

“Thank you, Harry,” she says. “That would be nice.”

They have dinner at the club. Young strangers meeting for the first time. And after a while it becomes real. The tension. Will she or won’t she? Will he or won’t he? Excitement and fright. Hope and fear of rejection.

Over coffee and brandy, he says, “Do you live nearby, Sylvia?”

“Quite near. I walked over here. I have a small condo, but I’m looking for something larger. Where do you live, Harry?”

“As they say in Florida, down the road a piece. I have a beachfront home.”

“Beachfront? Sounds divine.”

“Too big for me, and decorated like a warehouse. But yes, it’s nice. Like to see it?”

Lock stares. Then she stubs out her cigarette.

“I’d love to see it,” she says. “But only for a few minutes. Then I’ve got to get home. Tennis date in the morning.”

“Of course,” he says.

They will not break up into laughter or tears and end the farce they are playing. Suddenly it is essential to both. Their life together born again. First stirrings. First bloomings. They are young. Nervous and eager. Afraid of making a false step. Pushing too hard or surrendering too easily.

He shows her around his home. Kitchen. Patio. Upstairs. Everything. They stroll out to the beach. Listen to the sea. Watch palm fronds whip crazily in a gusty wind. Saunter back to the house.

“It’s beautiful,” she says. “Really beautiful.”

“I know,” he says. Laughing. “But there’s so much you could do with it.”

“Yes, there is.”

“Would you like another brandy?”

“I shouldn’t, but I will.”

They kick off their shoes. Slump down in deep armchairs. Regard each other without smiling.

Now or never, he thinks. “Sylvia,” he says, “do you really have to get back to your place?”

“Is that a proposition?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“I could cancel the tennis date.”

“Well then?”

In the bedroom, they leave the lights off. Undress hurriedly in the darkness.

“I want you to know,” she says, “I don’t usually do—”

“I know,” he interrupts. “I don’t usually either.”

They are deliberately awkward in bed. Fumbling. Reality is lost, so well are they acting their roles. Once again it is the first time. They want it to be grand. They are alternately crude and tender. Testing. How may I please her? What does he like best?